


My Blood Runs Hot, Jon

by noblet



Category: Fake News FPF, The Late Show with Stephen Colbert (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Republican National Convention, Stewbert is canon I can die happy now, sfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7541344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblet/pseuds/noblet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen summons "Stephen" back to cover the RNC and Jon is left to worry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Blood Runs Hot, Jon

“God, you're old.”

Jon rolls over to find Stephen staring intently at him, squinting in a way that mirrors interrogation. “Thanks,” he murmurs dryly before pulling the covers up to his chin.

Even in the summer, mornings are cold in the woods. Thankfully, Stephen acts as a human furnace (“My blood runs hot, Jon- as all true American blood does.”) He closes his eyes as Stephen slides a hand over his waist, warm palms coming into contact with the bare torso underneath Jon’s shirt. He shivers.

Stephen’s hands are tough and calloused from years of woodwork and shipbuilding, and the tips of his fingers find their way to his collar. “Can I…” he whispers.

The latter nods, lets Stephen unbutton the first, then the second button. He's working on the fifth when a heavy knock lands on the cabin door, and Jon stops staring at Stephen’s fingers and sits up. “Who the…”

He gets up from the bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and smoothing his hair back into shape. He grabs the cold coffee he made yesterday and sips on it as he makes his way to the entrance. Stephen gets up as well, grumbling something about yesterday's coffee and how it always has to be made today.

Jon opens the door and it's Stephen. The other one. The one that talked to him sweetly and called him late at night. The one that he ate lunch with from time to time and argued with over the correct pronunciation of bubons and caramel. The one that his Stephen left behind to appease the fans he bade farewell to. It's been a while.

“Nice glasses,” Jon wants to say, but the only word that comes out is a shy, “Stephen?”

Not-his-Stephen looks at him with a wistful countenance. “Jon,” he starts. The sound of his Stephen scurrying around the living room (to find his sword and shield, no doubt about it) interrupts his thought. Jon just sighs. “Donald Trump-”

“Look, look, Stephen,” Jon laughs, cutting him off. “Stephen and I,” he looks over to his counterpart and nods, “We’re kinda busy right now, so I'm sorry to say this but thank you for making the trip out and I'm sure you'll do fine without us. Conventions are coming up, right?”

The look Stephen gives him upon mentioning the conventions is concerning. He tilts his head. “They are. That's why I'm here,” he says, anxiously rocking back and forth on his heels in the way Stephen never does. "The nominee..."

“It's not who I think it is,” Jon dares to say, and Stephen just nods. He takes a sip of the coffee and smacks his lips against the bitterness.

“You understand why I'm here, so you know what I need, right? You guys are still living together?” Stephen asks, the last sentence more a statement than a question.

Jon nods. He looks over to the living room, and surely enough, Stephen's in his suit, hair gelled up to acute perfection. He grabs his sword (found behind Jon’s potted plants) and his shield (found under the bed) and walks up from behind Jon.

“Hello, friend. You needed me?” He says, looking at himself.

The Stephen-that's-not-him nods. “Donald Trump’s the Republican nominee.”

The look he gives Jon is cutting. “This is great news! Why didn't you tell me earlier!” He exclaims, shoving Jon aside to get to the door. “Move!”

He hands Stephen his sword and the two of them run off, supposedly to civilization. Jon sighs and leans against the wooden doorframe. “Call me if you're gonna be late!” he cries out to no one in particular.

=====

It takes him a while to fall asleep. It always does. Eventually, his mind wanders to the two Stephens. He wonders if Stephen misses it, the glamor of television. Sure, he pretends he doesn't care about _The Report_ , but more often than not Jon hears him in the middle of the night mumbling "in here, out there, Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea…” 

He worries about him. So what?

He laughs quietly. It's Stephen. Surely, he’ll be okay.

=====

He wakes up with a start when Sting clatters to the floor, evidently announcing Stephen’s return. Jon rubs his eyes as he strains to make out the figure in the darkness.

“Sorry, Jon!” Stephen whispers in the dark as he kicks off his shoes.

He slips into bed next to him, torso bare, like every other night. While Jon claims it's too cold, Stephen protests the opposite.

“Missed me?” He places a kiss onto Jon’s forehead before he turns to find a comfortable spot. Jon hums confirmation.

“How is he, by the way?” He asks after Stephen settles down.

"He has a new theatre. It's real nice."

"And?"

"He complained about your beard a lot."

Jon laughs. "When does he not?"

Stephen doesn't reply. Instead, he pulls the blankets up for the both of them (he'll steal them from Jon when he falls asleep) and turns so they're face-to-face. Moonlight filters in through the lone window in the cabin and Jon can make out Stephen's upturned lips.

"He misses you," Stephen whispers after a long time.

“Hmm,” Jon mumbles as he sinks into his voice. “I missed you more.”


End file.
